Intezaar

Chapter 1

"INTEZAAR, lambaa intezaar." The words echo in my mind, much like the heartache they were meant to express in "Laila Majnu." And right now, I can't help but feel the same way. Love at first sight? I've always been a skeptic, but what happened to me a month ago has me wondering if I've been proven wrong.

It all started on the 23rd of October, when I saw her for the first time - in a temple, of all places. A fleeting encounter, a moment that passed in the blink of an eye, yet it lingered in my thoughts ever since. That was the last time I saw her. Now, here I am, in a state of longing - INTEZAAR - hoping for another glimpse, another chance to see her again.

My name is Rishi Nanda, a full-time photojournalist in Kolkata. And, believe it or not, I do have a photo of her - thanks to my job, of course. But, looking back, I can't help but think I might be deserving of a lawsuit for snapping that shot without permission. But honestly, how could I resist? She was that breathtaking.

Despite returning to the temple at the same hour every day, hoping for a glimpse of her, fate never crossed our paths again.

And so, the cycle continued. I wasn't exactly a devout person, so even my mother couldn't quite grasp why I was at the temple every day. Maybe this is what love really feels like - a bit irrational, a little obsessive. Heh.

As a photojournalist, I had responsibilities to fulfill, no matter how much my mind wandered. This month, like every other, came with its own set of tasks - reports to prepare, images to capture, deadlines to meet. My days were filled with routine, just like any other working professional. I found myself covering mundane stories - a politician's speech here, a local protest there. The kind of work that barely made the front page, let alone the headlines.

It wasn't the kind of job I had imagined when I was a kid, dreaming of capturing the world through my lens. Back then, I envisioned myself at the heart of thrilling stories - war zones, natural disasters, the kind of moments that would make history. Instead, here I was, documenting the everyday, the ordinary. The excitement of photojournalism seemed so distant now, lost in the blur of routine. And yet, something in me kept hoping for that one big story, the one that would change everything. But that day had yet to come.

The very next day, I received a call that seemed almost too good to be true - a murder case. Maybe, just maybe, it was the universe responding to my silent wish for something more exciting. Of course, I hadn't been hoping for a murder to land in my lap right away, but let's be honest - a case like this had the potential to be more than just another assignment. It was the kind of story that could get the adrenaline pumping, the kind that could break the monotony of my routine work.

The idea of diving into a mystery, of capturing images that would tell a story of crime and intrigue, was exactly the kind of challenge I had always dreamed of when I first picked up a camera. Murder was, of course, a grim subject, but it promised to be a fascinating investigation. The kind of thing that could actually make a difference, the kind of case that might finally give me the edge I had been yearning for in my career. So, even though I wasn't prepared for it in the way I imagined, I couldn't deny the excitement that stirred within me. This was the kind of story I'd been waiting for.

I arrived at the scene, my camera in hand, ready to capture the standard shots of the surroundings - the usual wide-angle shots, close-ups of the scene, and the necessary documentation for the case. As I moved around, I tried to stay out of the way of the officers, but I couldn't help overhearing bits of conversation. After speaking with a few of the police, I learned that the victim's name was Ishita Datta.

Despite the police making it clear that her body was off-limits for photography due to privacy and procedural reasons, I couldn't shake the feeling that something about this case felt different. There was an underlying tension, a sense of importance that wasn't immediately obvious from the surface. Ishita came from a well-to-do family that primarily lived overseas, only coming to India on occasion, usually for holidays. But this time, she had been staying in India for an extended period, apparently for some personal reasons.

The more I heard, the more it seemed like this wasn't just an ordinary murder case. Everything about it hinted at something far more complicated, perhaps even high-profile. The family background, her extended stay, the circumstances surrounding her death - it all pointed to a case that could be more than just a local crime. It felt like I had stumbled into something bigger than I expected, and I couldn't help but feel the weight of the situation pressing on me. This wasn't just a case to cover; it was a story with the potential to make headlines.

I'm not a police officer, so I couldn't stay at the scene for long. My role was to capture the story from the outside, not to delve into the investigation itself. However, I did have a few connections with some officers, and through them, I managed to get my hands on a photo of the victim - a photo that, of course, wasn't suitable for publication due to privacy and security concerns.

This tragic event had brought her family back to India, who were likely on their way as I spoke to the officers. It was hard to even imagine the state of mind they must be in, traveling in such devastating circumstances. The weight of the situation, the loss they were about to face - it was unbearable to think about.

But as I left the scene, something about the case lingered in my mind. There was something more hidden beneath the surface, something I hadn't yet uncovered. I had a feeling that this was just the beginning, and the deeper I dug, the more unsettling truths would begin to emerge...